So strange to me…

the prospect of giving flowers.

Is it the sight, smell, or feel of them that brings comfort?

Splashes of budding color make me think of death.

Bouquets of condolence.

The sight of them makes me remember.

Their soft petals are my father’s hands

gently brushing my forehead while I sleep.

I count the days until they wilt.

I appreciate the sentiment,

but what I need more are strong, reassuring arms

to embrace me in my sorrow.